Transition to Murder

by Renee James

  Halfway home, I stop at a deli for soup and a half sandwich. I’m not hungry, but I haven’t eaten in twenty four hours except for some crackers and juice at the salon. I know I need some calories. . The deli girl gawks at me, but I’m too tired to give a damn. Funny, my indifference seems to make her indifferent too. How about that?

  I don’t look behind me on my way home tonight. I called Thomas today and asked if he or one of his friends could shadow me to and from the salon for a while. I have to figure out what to do about Strand and this will give me some time. I haven't told him about last night’s episode. No one but Strand and I will ever know anything about last night, unless Strand tells someone. By the time I get home I’ve managed to focus on my heels clicking on the pavement, and moving my hips and arms in a feminine fashion. It feels so good to walk free and feel like a woman again.

  Maybe Strand will get smart and leave me alone. Maybe he'll just live his life and I'll live mine. Or maybe he'll be waiting for me in my living room when I get home.

  ***

  AS I PASS A NEWSTAND on my way to work, I see a photograph of John Strand on the front page of the Tribune. My heart pounds against my ribs. My hair feels like it's standing on end. I buy the paper and tuck it under my arm without even reading the headline. I scurry to the salon and go directly to my work station. I throw my belongings on the floor, sit in my chair, and open the paper.

  "Powerful Attorney Found Dead." The headline screams at me like an accusation. I gasp out loud. "What?" I whisper the word, but in my mind I'm shrieking it. What? I feel like I must be scaring my colleagues to death. I look around. Everyone is tending to their own business, getting ready for their first clients.

  How could Strand be dead?

  I have to wipe tears from my eyes to read the news story. It is grizzly. John Strand, head of one of Chicago's most prestigious law firms, was found hanging from the ceiling in his Lincoln Square apartment yesterday by a cleaning lady. He had been ritualistically murdered, police said. His throat had been slit with a carving knife from his own kitchen. There were no witnesses; the neighbors hadn't heard anything…

  I stop reading and use my hands to feel my face, my arms, my chair, to see if this is real or just a terrible dream. I look around the salon again, searching for evidence that I'm dreaming. I'm not dreaming. This is real. This is here and now and somehow John Strand has been murdered.

  I'm starting to have a panic attack right in the middle of the salon. I'm having trouble breathing, I feel lightheaded and nauseous. The lights are glowing painfully bright and my eyes don't seem to focus right. I hear a voice. It sounds far away, then closer. I look in the direction of the sound. It's the receptionist. Samantha. She's standing next to me, her pretty face etched with concern.

  "Bobbi, are you okay?" I dimly realize she was saying something else before. She's asking if I'm okay because I must look like someone on a bad drug trip.

  I nod to indicate I'm okay. I'm not sure my voice will work. I take deep breathes as inconspicuously as I can.

  "Your first client is here," she says. She pauses. "Are you sure you're okay?"

  "Yes," I say, finally. "Just some trouble with asthma this morning."

  Samantha looks at me curiously. I've never mentioned asthma before, mainly because I don't have the problem.

  "Can you tell her I'll be just a few minutes?"

  She departs to tell the client and I get my station ready.

  Thus begins the craziest day of my crazy life. I will spend the entire day feeling like I'm living in a haunted dream where ghouls and goblins can change my reality on a whim. I keep wondering if I'm one of those psychotics who kill people and don't remember it. I keep mentally re-playing the scene where I put the knife to Strand's throat, searching for a vision or a muscle memory that would tell me I slit his throat, but for the life of me, I can only recall failing to do what I needed to do.

  But if it wasn't me, who killed John Strand?

  As I prepare to greet my client, a thought takes hold in the dim recesses of my mind. Someone was watching Strand's apartment that night. Someone came into the apartment when I left, picked up the knife I left behind, and finished off the wretched psychopath I left hanging.

  Who would do such a thing? One of Strand's enemies? A pet thug he betrayed?

  While I grapple with that thought, another pops into my mind: Maybe someone followed me that night, someone concerned for my safety. They see me leave, go in to check my work, and finish Strand so he can't come and kill me. Thomas? Cecelia? One of my other friends? Would any of them go to such extreme lengths to protect me from Strand? This thought stays with me for days."

  ***

  CECELIA CALLS JUST AS MY FIRST client is sitting down in my chair. I'm already fifteen minutes late and I am book solidly through the day. I ask Samantha to tell Cecelia I'll call her back tonight. She obviously wants to talk about Strand. She probably wants to throw a party and sings songs about his passing.

  She will especially enjoy the circumstances of his death. Dehumanizing. Humiliating. If I wasn't so worried about my own complicity in his murder, I'd glory in the news, too. The perfect send off for man with no conscience who liked to humiliate and dehumanize people. Too bad he can only die once.

  But I have bigger problems. My day is filled with doubts about my own sanity.

  ***

  CECELIA'S BLACK CADILLAC idles at the curb in front of the salon as I step into the soft sunlight of early evening. Cecelia wasn't taking any chances on me returning her call. To be honest, I'm relieved. As much as I'm glad the workday is over, I had no idea how I would survive an entire night of my own thoughts.

  I slide into the front seat like a celebrity hairdresser. Two other stylists wave to me as Cecelia pulls away from the curb. Tomorrow they'll tease me about having a rich new beau. I won't tell them that the last rich new beau I had just turned up dead.

  "You've heard, right?" Cecelia doesn't bother with hellos.

  "About Strand? Yes, I saw the headline in the paper."

  "Did you know he had a place in Lincoln Square?" Cecelia asks excitedly.

  "Why wouldn't he?" I'm being purposely evasive.

  "Because he's got a place the size of a cattle ranch in Lake Point Tower." She casts a sidelong glance at me, irritated. She told me about his lakefront condo long ago.

  I shrug.

  "He didn't take you there on your 'date'?" Cecelia says "date" like she's holding a bag of dog poop in front of her.

  "No."

  "He had more than one place?" She's demanding information.

  "He took me to a private room at Skyscrapers. It was a step down from a no-tell motel."

  Cecelia stares at me as we sit at a stoplight. "Did you…?" She's asking if I serviced him. The disgust on her face is palpable.

  "It's over. It's not something I talk about." My voice is sharp. Cecelia gets the message. She asks if I've been following the story during the day. I haven't. She fills me in as we move in starts and stops to her sumptuous apartment downtown.

  Details about the murder are sparse. Investigators think the apartment was a love nest. Sex paraphernalia were found on site and not much else. The neighbors seldom saw people come and go and never got close enough to say hello or make an identification. The folks upstairs sometimes heard late night visitors arrive. There are no immediate suspects, but police are thought to be seeking persons of interest who were romantically linked to Strand.

  Cecelia says the media is buzzing with information about Strand himself, especially with material that makes his tawdry end so much more gossip worthy. Rich. Powerful. Hugely successful. Brilliant attorney. Skilled networker. Influential friend to the mayor, the governor, and many other Illinois politicians. Man about town. Constantly seen with beautiful women. Popular. Garrulous. The profiles make him seem like a cross between Cary Grant and a civic leader, with a dash of weird sex thrown in.

  Cecelia seems exultant as she relates the dirt to me. I wish I could feel so g
ood about it.

  “Well,” she says, “aren’t you going to say anything? I thought you’d be as happy as I am.”

  By not speaking I’ve made her suspicious.

  “I’d be a happier if he had been brought to justice for murdering Mandy,” I say. “But yes, it’s nice to know he’s off the streets. Any good rumors about who did it?”

  This gets her going. The rumor mills in the police department and at the courthouse are buzzing. He’s had several girlfriends in the past year, some of them at the same time. One was married, a high-powered corporate executive. And of course Cecelia had tried again to make the police aware of his connection to Mandy and the trans community.

  That makes me swallow. I had hoped his connection to our world would be ignored, a rumor with no foundation, the ultimate insulation for me. No one knew about our one-night stand, so I don’t expect any investigation to get to me anyway. But just the same, it would be nicer if they stayed in the straight world with their probe.

  I have trouble staying focused on Cecelia’s gossip. It’s not just the thought of being implicated that distracts me. It's also the sense of loss. I lost my innocence in all of this. I tried to murder someone. I planned it. I executed the plan, step by step, like a professional. I didn't finish it, I'm sure about that now, but cold blooded execution was my intent. "A ritualistic murder" the cops called it. Will I ever again be able to feel the first rays of morning light on my face and dream of beautiful things? Of a gentle lover, a perfect hairdo, Marilee’s soft smile?

  Cecelia is irritated with my lack of communication. “Am I boring you, Bobbi?” she asks sharply.

  “No, honey,” I say with a sigh. “I’m just distracted.” I focus on our conversation as we ride the elevator into the clouds where her apartment lies. We chat like lifelong sisters as we work side by side in the kitchen to prepare our evening meal. We finish a bottle of wine together and I stumble to bed in her guest room, the alcohol just enough to plunge me into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

  ***

  AS MUCH AS I LOVE doing hair, this day seemed to last forever. I had a cancellation and a no-show, which never helps. Any time I spend sitting around is time spent reliving my final nightmare night with Strand, trying to figure out what happened after I left. Wondering what I could possibly say to the police if they found out I was the one who abducted him and hung him from the ceiling. Even I have a hard time believing I left him alive. The police would never buy that story. If they get to me, I'm dead.

  My customers don't brighten the day at all. They are universally boring today. Everyone seems to be in a snappy, edgy mood.

  It’s especially hard now, with the specter of Strand’s murder hanging over me. I take no solace in the fact that I didn't actually kill him. I wanted to. It wasn't morality that held me back, it was cowardice. I should have killed him so he couldn't kill anyone else. So he couldn't kill me.

  But even more than the guilt, the realization that I could be convicted of that bastard's murder has weighed heavily on my mind all day, and it’s getting worse with every step I take now. I’m walking north on Clark Street in a neighborhood favored by lesbians, though like all of the LGBT neighborhoods on the North side, it draws lots of straight people too because it's a safe, beautiful community. I turn into a really cute neighborhood café. Sitting on a stool at a raised table in the corner is Officer Phil. He smiles and waves when I enter. I smile and wave back. He looks hot, like always, but my lust is subdued by the strong feeling he asked me to meet him so he could grill me about the Strand murder, not because he enjoys my sparkling wit or wants to seduce me.

  We exchange greetings and I peel off my light spring coat and hang it on the back of my stool. As I hoist myself up on the tall seat, I glance at Phil’s face. For a moment his eyes seem to be popping out of his head, and he blushes a beet red. I have inadvertently given him a total boob flash struggling onto my stool. He struggles to regain control of his outward appearance, consciously looking away from my chest. I allow myself to wonder for a brief moment if he is somehow interested in me. The thought evaporates in a short burst of reality: I'm the kind of girl guys like him can introduce to their girlfriends and not worry about sparking jealousy or suspicion.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Would it be better if I kept my coat on?”

  He accepts my question as a rhetorical quip and simply smiles.

  I’m dressed like a slut today. Rebellion I guess. My feelings about the murder and who I am and what I did are very complex and very fluid. When I finally got around to dressing this morning I just had this unstoppable urge to express my femininity. Sometimes that comes out in a conservative long flowing skirt and peasant blouse, sometimes in a miniskirt and net hose. Today it came out in streetwalker garb—a low-cut lacy top, no bra, skin-tight black pants, stiletto heels, hair in a high twist with dangling strands of curls at my temples. And I just started my meeting with Officer Phil by flashing him. Great form.

  We do how-are-you small talk until the waiter takes our orders. Coffee for Phil, water for me. A great day for the restaurant business.

  “So,” I say as the waiter leaves, “did you call me here to propose marriage or what?” Officer Phil laughs, maybe blushes a little. I don’t know what has gotten into me. This is not like me, but it feels right. He’s way too somber and, beneath my veneer, so am I. Let’s laugh a little.

  “I’m sorry about my outfit,” I say. “If I had known you’d be calling today I would have worn something more presentable to work and I wouldn’t be embarrassing you like this.”

  He smiles. “No problem, Bobbi. You look great.” He pauses for a moment and that thought flashes into my mind again. Could he be interested in me? The thought perishes when he speaks again. It's just business. “I’m just asking around to see if anyone knows anything about John Strand, the guy who was found murdered yesterday. Cecelia claims he was involved with Mandy Marvin and we have some reports he might have dated some other transwomen from time to time. What can you tell me about him?”

  I straighten my posture and strike a thoughtful pose, gazing into the distance. “Well, Cecelia introduced me to him once and I’ve seen him around a couple of times, but not with anyone from the community. Cecelia said he hooked up with a transwoman or two, but I can’t honestly say I ever saw that.” I kind of shrug as if to say I’m sorry.

  “Does this mean I have to pay for my own drink?” I ask.

  Officer Phil chuckles politely and shakes his head no.

  “I understand Cecelia wasn’t the only one who thought he was seeing Mandy,” says Phil. He says it conversationally, but he's probing. . I wonder if this is a big opportunity for him, a big promotion looming for anyone who can turn up a legitimate suspect.

  “I’ve heard that, too,” I say. “That’s been all over the community since Mandy was murdered. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I hear the talk so much I sort of assume it’s true.”

  “But you don’t have personal knowledge they were dating?” Phil asks. His eyebrows arch in question, but I think I detect an edge to his query, like he thinks I'm lying.

  “No,” I answer.

  “You and Mandy were good friends,” he says. “A lot of people said that during the investigation. Didn’t she tell you anything about her love life?”

  “Not a lot,” I say. “We weren’t really close friends. I was her hairdresser and I adored her and we talked a lot when I did her hair. But we didn’t have a lot in common. You know, different ages, different crowds…”

  “She was a party girl, I remember everyone saying,” says Phil, coaxing me to talk more.

  “Yes, she was,” I agree. “She was into the club scene. The girl could dance and party ‘til dawn.”

  “Was she a hooker, Bobbi?” His voice is matter-of-fact, but the question feels confrontational, like he's a prosecutor and I'm a witness trying to lie about something.

  I pause for a moment to collect my thoughts. “She turned tricks for money, like a lot of the y
oung ones. That’s probably how she paid for her surgery. But she told me she was getting out of the trade, months before she was murdered. She was a good kid.”

  Phil nods, as if in agreement. “What about her and John Strand?”

  Small alarm bells are ringing in my mind. I've already answered this question, and quite plausibly. Is this some kind of interrogation technique?

  “Like I said, I never saw them together. Mandy told me she had a new lover, but she never said his name and she never introduced me to anyone as her lover or her special friend or anything like that.”

  “Do you think anyone in the trans community would be capable of killing Strand as revenge for Mandy Marvin’s murder?” He has an earnest look on his face.

  I respond in disbelief. “I can’t think of anything less likely than that,” I say. “We’re all in various stages of castration. We can be mean and petty and irrational, but transwomen are almost never violent. You tell me—when was the last time a transwoman was charged with a violent crime in Chicago?”

  He accepts this as a rhetorical question. We both know that transwomen have never been charged with murder in Chicago. Robbery, yes. Prostitution, oh yes. The occasional misdemeanor assault charge coming out of a domestic violence situation. But transwomen just aren’t violent people. Other than me, and in the end, even I couldn't pull the trigger.

  We sip our drinks in silence.

  “The other thing I wanted to talk to you about is the District Attorney’s victim assistance unit. I didn’t know this, but Cook County actually has a victim assistance person who specializes in LGBT crimes.”

  I stare at him blankly.

  “This has to do with when you were raped, Bobbi,” he says. “There’s a person in the District Attorney’s office who should have gotten your case report and who can help you push the case along. For some reason, she never saw the paperwork on your case.”